


Parisfal

by ARoadInCapeCod



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Related, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Drabble, Episode: s06e06 How the Ghosts Stole Christmas, Feels, Gen, Headcanon, Missing Scene, One Shot, Post-Episode: s06e06 How the Ghosts Stole Christmas, Psychological Trauma, Stand Alone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 12:30:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8489731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ARoadInCapeCod/pseuds/ARoadInCapeCod
Summary: This work is primarily a head-canon and missing scene that delves deeper into the psychological effects/trauma experienced by Scully as a result of her work on the X-Files. This is my interpretation of some of the after-effects regarding the season six holiday-themed episode, How The Ghosts Stole Christmas. There is a soft trigger warning (tw) for trauma.





	

_ December 27 _

Two days time was not long enough. She had not recovered. It still felt slowly like the beginning. Side-effects of what she had experienced that night plagued her brain and body. She felt disinterested: unable to focus on simple tasks that brought back unreal memories.

The mornings had not been the same. In the ten minutes it took to cook oatmeal, the seconds dripped by like hours. The popping bubbles morphing inside the pan would suddenly turn red and remind her of something most foul: blood dripping and leaving her stomach on either side, during that illusion. After breakfast, the trip to the sink to wash a few dishes took ages as her fingers slid over the wet pans unable to grip with confidence.

She did, however, make it a point to stick to a somewhat reasonable eating schedule. What little she ate made her feel better, although temporarily. She kept at it, however, a small meal here and there to keep up her strength. A calming mug of tea every few hours to help cope with this mind disaster. 

In the evenings, she lay down on her bed to read a measly chapter of a fiction novel but it brought little comfort. She could barely grip the cover before a violent memory of that giant library in that mansion flooded her brain. A woodsy almond smell she so desperately wanted gone. She remembered fondly it was filled to the brim with volume after volume; yet, she failed to remember the title of that book she held in her hands while under the covers.

In these two nights, she retreated to her bedroom for another round of uncertain sleep. Her dreams were cluttered: a woman’s face ran rampant, in and out of a dense, low fog. In the middle of the night, she would wake once or twice in a cold sweat, with hazy gaze, unable to catch her breath. She would lie back on the pillows, turn on the bedside light and focus on her breathing in an effort to stop her ceasing chest. 

For two days, she had not been able to glance at her gun. She placed it on the coffee table table that night she returned home, in an effort of banishment. She did not need to use it inside her apartment - that was clear. However, she feared she would never again be able to pull the trigger. 

She had not left her apartment. The holidays were here, every store on the block closed. 

Nothing helped. 

This was not living. This is not how she wanted to live.

This was a nightmare she prayed would not repeat itself every Christmas Eve for the rest of her life. It felt like a cold hell wrapped in a perfectly red holiday present that she did not write at the top of her list.

Occasionally, while watching the Christmas commercials flutter on the television, she wandered into the bathroom, pull up her shirt and gaze at her exposed stomach in the mirror. She ran her fingertips over the invisible wound, one that she was sure happened. It felt like a faux flea that could not decide where to bite.

 


End file.
